


Lifetimes

by orangefriday



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Character Death, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-31
Updated: 2012-12-31
Packaged: 2017-11-23 02:22:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/617023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orangefriday/pseuds/orangefriday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was a Once and there will be many Futures. And it will turn out right eventually.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lifetimes

**Author's Note:**

> This story is very heavy with "terms". I've included footnote links (that go down and back up so it won't disrupt reading) but they're not entirely necessary to know as you read unless you're curious and/or need a more detailed explanation. Very important: I am not smart. I just have the ability to google, so please forgive and correct me if I'm historically and factually inaccurate. I'm quite nervous because it's my second Merlin fic ever and it's also probably one of the largest story ideas I've ever tried to tackle.
> 
> Thank you to my wonderful betas, [98ninetyeight](http://98ninetyeight.livejournal.com/) and [heavenlyumbrella](http://heavenlyumbrella.tumblr.com/)!!!

He dies on the shores of Avalon. His weary bones sink into the soft of the earth and the lake’s coolness licks at his bare ankles. Camelot is thriving and Albion hums with contentment as she enters her Golden Age. Everything he has been dreaming of comes to life. _Almost everything_ , he thinks, as he hears his name, uttered by a voice he hasn’t heard in sixty years. He whispers to it, speaking promises of the future and then he closes his eyes for the last time in this life.

The first time he wakes he is not even human. He is on all fours and the world is monochrome with smells that vibrate past his bones and the inability to ever sit still. He blends into the landscape and lives amidst snow with his brother and father.

When the air shifts and the white melts into flat grey, he often spies those who walk on two paws with smooth faces. They killed his mother long before memory graced him and his father often cries to the east winds, calling out to her with eyes ablaze brighter than the one that grants them sight. Sometimes the Flyer with its large black silvery wings and white head answers his father’s calls, and they both sing to each other of Before during the times of their fathers’ fathers.

The Flyer calls him Angakkuq and gives no other name to anybody else. Even his father, who the Flyer speaks to only, has no name. His brother does not understand even as he learns their father’s song, but still, the Flyer does not answer him. Instead, the Flyer watches Angakkuq and whispers his name over and over again, telling his father that Angakkuq is magic to the spirits and is destined.

 _Destined?_ he asks. His father only nuzzles him silent, looking fondly at him with warm eyes and his own brother looks at him with curiosity.

He receives his answer one day when the Great Light in the sky becomes hot and the Smooth Faces appear with their paws wrapped around points that cut the air. They’ve never seen anything like that before, only being familiar with the Long Arrows and the Short Silver that the creatures bring. The Killing Point is like lightning in the Dark Days, killing his father instantly and spilling darkness out from beneath his purer than white body. The light bends differently that day and he sees more than dark and light but the in-between as well, embedded within his own sickening grief and anger. His brother’s cries are louder than his and he swears his brother’s eyes are the same kind of bent as the Great Light above as he charges at the closest Smooth Face: the Smooth Face’s son.

The Flyer finally chooses to speak to him at this moment, flying in low circles in the white sky and calling for Angakkuq. He looks to the air and listens as The Flyer tells him that his destiny is with the Smooth Face – the one that his brother tackles to the ground and tears a gaping, dark hole in his equally smooth neck. He tells him he will live in many worlds and there was a Once and that there will be a Future. He tells him why he is called Angakkuq[1], spirit guider and magic holder.

The older Smooth Face readies his Killing Point, calling out enraged and shaking, but never gets the chance because his brother is quicker, abandoning the younger one and sinking his vicious teeth into the weak tenderness, tearing bloodied flesh from bone.

He is frozen in those moments, like a stone locked in ice for a thousand years.

He remembers then – suddenly and quickly like perfect white cracking beneath his feet – as he watches his brother kill his father’s killer, and as the younger Smooth Face kills his brother. He remembers his brother’s First Name and the prophecy he was etched into before. He remembers the anger and the betrayal his brother rendered to live with in his last days. And he remembers his own trepidatious distrust and mourns that he had not done differently then; but at least in this lifetime, he has loved his brother.

And then he remembers the Smooth Face’s name, as he sinks to his knees, tears swirling beautifully into beating darkness that spill out of his smoothness. His name is Tuurngaq [2] now, the Flyer tells him, and he is Angakkuq’s destiny, guiding Tuurngaq many times to be by his side always. He leaps in one great bound over Tuurngaq and looks into his eyes; the light bends and the word _blue_ attaches to his mind. Tuurngaq’s eyes are a beautiful, empty _blue_. He thinks Tuurngaq remembers, too, as his last breath utters Angakkuq’s First Name and the empty _blue_ flashes full and radiant for a moment – and then Tuurngaq dies too, collapsing onto the hard ground right beside his dead brother.  

The Flyer lands beside him, still for the very first time and tells him that there is nothing left he can do.

So he does the same thing he has done before, vision blurred and heart pounding violently within his chest. He takes Tuurngaq to where the white melts into the earth, crying to the Flyer his father’s song. They both sing to each other as Tuurngaq disappears beneath _blue_ and Angakkuq promises again that he will wait and do better the next time.  

The next time is not better.

Midori remembers everything early in childhood even though she is everything that is the opposite of what she used to be. This time, there is no Kilgarrah or The Flyer to guide her to find Arthur or Tuurngaq. Instead, she is eight and alone, orphaned and penniless in Kyoto with dreams that are memories and memories that are histories of lives she’s lived. She has no magic and no skill. She is little and useless. The _geisha_ [3] create wide berths around her as they float prettily through the streets and everyone is disgusted by her dirtiness but no one has the heart to rid of her. Midori sticks out like a turtle among a flock of cranes; grace, poise and quiet ruptured with an unsteady, clumsy gait. She is always hungry and always stopping in bustling street centres, collapsing into a weak heap as waves of memories assault her mind. One day, her head does not hit the ground; instead she falls into the arms of a man in foreign military uniform with blue eyes and yellow hair and a smile that is crooked but beautifully familiar all the same. He smells like fresh water and sweet dew grass. She thinks – and knows later – that this is the scent of Avalon.

He does not speak her language and she does not understand his.

“What is your name?” she dares to ask him, then becomes embarrassed that she has forgotten to thank him for helping her. But he only smiles, eyes crinkling and points to the vendor selling _taiyaki_ [4] instead and buys her one with _anko_ and puts it in her hands. The fish-shaped pastry is warm and the red bean paste sweet and savoury on her tongue. She can’t help but smile up at him, taking in every inch of what she can see of the soldier whose destiny entwines with her own. He adjusts the long black gun strapped around his shoulder and for a minute, it flashes a pretty gold and silver but Midori passes it off as a trick of the light.

“My name is Midori now,” she tells him and he still does not understand, repeating _onamae_ [5] as if it were her name. She repeats again, simpler: “ _Watashi wa Midori desu”_ and again when he still does not understand. But he calls her _onamae_ the whole time that they are together and he is not very bright, she thinks as she chews the treat and as he watches her with his inquiring deep sea-like eyes. He squints at her in the most peculiar way, as if trying to dissect her from one flower petal to the one next to it.

Eventually he has to leave and Midori tries to follow him but he stops her, putting another _taiyaki_ in her palm and she almost throws the pastry at his head when he says, “ _Sayonara_ [6] _, Onamae_ ” because that is _not_ her name – not any of her names, past or present – and there was no need for such a permanent good-bye when she knows, and her dreams confirm it, they will see each other again.

So she whispers _ja ne_ – _see you later –_ instead to his retreating form and waits.  

Rumours of war start then and Midori is lucky to stumble upon Kento-san at Yasaka Shrine where they pray together for no less than five minutes and Midori remembers his name but calls him Grandfather instead and then, affectionately, Jiichan[7] because he takes her in and doesn’t sell her to the _okiya_ [8] across the street, saving her from the strenuous life of being a _geisha_. She looks at the beautiful women, painted in white and blushed with red. Every action is calculated in perfect, measured grace that even the way their shimmering silk _kimonos_ sway in the wind is anticipated. She takes it in with an air of awe, believes it to be beautiful, but at the same time, she knows there is a deep darkness behind all that beauty.

Jiichan is kind and treats her like his own daughter. He teaches her _kanpo_ [9] and it takes her a while to learn all the right herbs and which goes with which. She is better with _shiatsu_ [10] but Jiichan knows little about acupuncture and swears that the magic of herbal _kanpo_ far exceeds the invasive physicality of needles and pressure points. But he learns just for her, often raising a high brow while reading books and looking at Midori warningly and a little wearily as she experiments on him. The _geisha_ from the _okiya_ across the street with hair that curls around one’s fingers and eyes that shine like the cleanest blue pearl often calls for Midori specifically to ail her headaches, and complains often to her about the impending war. She tells Midori how the times are changing for the _geisha_ , the art being tainted by the dirtiness of prostitution. Miko-san’s complaints are laced with fear and bitterness. She dares to tell Miko-san that the world will change and that it will not always be like it is now. Miko-san looks at her with a quiet indescribable expression and says, “Until then, Midori, we shall live unmarked.”

One day a soldier leaves the _okiya_ when the sky is still rich navy with only a fragile silk sheen of pink covering the mountains. Midori spies him from her window and watches him climb quietly out of the doorway and onto the street, shadow uncannily invisible in an illogical lie. He is pale white with a full beard of black and eyes like iced stone when he looks up and catches her own. A sharp stab of past pain sears her skin as she ducks out from the window and tries desperately to stop the violent torrent of memories from overtaking her body. Jiichan finds her in a cold sweat and hardly breathing an hour later and she tells someone for the first time about the witch that lost her way and died by her very own hand.

It takes Jiichan a complete afternoon to believe Midori, but he does and even says his own First Name a couple of times, tasting the foreign tongue on his palate as he stirs the _ton-jiru_ [11], Midori’s favourite.

“I believe Miko-san will kill him,” she says, deeply troubled and sorry because she wishes, just for once, that destiny could leave everything alone and go along its way elsewhere. She’s had enough. A little is enough, and she doesn’t know what a lot could do. She doesn’t want to know.

“Miko-chan?” Jiichan says, incredulous. Again, his brow deepened the wrinkles on his forehead. He cannot wrap his mind around a _geisha_ being able to kill but Jiichan is not resistant to the charms of women, especially women trained vigorously in the art of dance and men. “You believe she will... _kill_ the soldier?”

Midori nods and clarifies with a sigh, “ _My_ soldier, Jiichan. The stupid one.”

That night, Jiichan convinces her to stay quiet and indoors, even as he sees for himself the other soldier with eyes of sharp cold slip into the _okiya_. He only shakes his head and looks at Midori, not quite believing but worried beyond reason, saying, “My dear child.”

Days later, Miko-san is more ill than a headache and no amount of _shiatsu_ helps her. Jiichan comes to help, reluctant to diagnose and looks to Midori with a strained sigh. The _okiya_ is silent when they learn she is pregnant. Miko-san loses her _danna_ [12], a wealthy lawyer who was the one that had supported her all these years since she had been a young nameless _geisha,_ embarrassed and disgraced by Miko-san’s new life inside of her.

And then the war begins and they are urged to leave Kyoto. People fled to the countryside, told to stay far away from Hiroshima and that Kyoto would go along with it. Planes roared overhead every day, breathing down Kyoto like the Great Dragon once had in Camelot. A great flash of fear strikes Midori every night until her last, of her soldier dying in fire and dying alone.

They are one of the last, having no money or means to leave quickly. Sometimes, in later lives, Midori wonders if they should have left earlier or if it was best they had waited so long to leave. But she believes that in both cases, no matter what, the Ice Soldier comes to the _okiya_ to find Miko-san, walking into Midori herself.

He speaks her language well. “Where is Miko?”

He is anxious, eyes wild and looking over his shoulder every few seconds. When Midori cannot speak fast enough, he grabs her by the shoulder and says again, quietly menacing and clear, “Tell me where Miko is.”

Midori breathes, fear overtaking her consciousness as she sees in her mind the witch crushing bones with a flick of a wrist. She is saved by Miko-san calling out for him and he lets go of her roughly and steps behind her. And for the second time in her life, Midori collapses not onto the ground but into the arms of her soldier.

“Are you all right?” he means to ask in her language, speaking loud over the growing thunder of planes overhead, but it comes out meaning _he is all right_ [13] instead. At least he’s _trying_ to learn, she thinks. He’s gotten older since the nine months she’s last seen him. His face looks rougher, wearier, and eyes darker, unlike the light amusement he greeted her before with. An innate sadness wells up inside of her as her soldier rights her and pats her on the head. The whirring of planes above becomes increasingly deafening and deep within herself, she knows there is not much time left.

He almost makes it to the doorway after the Ice Soldier before something takes over her voice and she speaks, low and clear and warm with – with _magic_ – and in the foreign tongue her soldier and she used to share together, she speaks with a grin the name of the Once and the Future –

“ _Arthur.”_

Then she dies in an explosion of fire and sulphur without ever knowing if her soldier had heard her say his true First Name and ever even knowing his name then.

It’s the third time that they know each other for more than twenty minutes. And it’s this time that they’re brothers, blood brothers and womb sharers. They were born as one but became two different sides of a coin.

Alex is darker; preferring his hair shaved and the odd blue-grey of his eyes surprises everyone and puts fear into some. Leo teases him about it all the time and they fight and wrestle and usually Alex gets hit in the face because Leo is all long arms and legs and feet so big they almost never find shoes in the right size for him. He is lighter skinned and no amount of sun can change him. His eyes shine golden brown in the firelight and he has hair that he refuses to cut even though it really should be.

“Ain’t no girl gon’ ever like you, Leo,” Alex says one day, while they’re hard at work stripping the land of the wheat. The others are farther back in the field, them being the closest to the house. Leo spies Eddie and his other friends somewhere in the middle, crouched low and baskets half full. The sun beats down its relentless heat on their bare backs and Missus Morgan sits at the porch, fanning herself with a sweaty glass of water in her equally sweaty, pasty white hand. Leo eyes the glistening liquid with a dry mouth. “Not with that hair. You best cut it all off.”

He lets out a loud breath, squinting at his brother and looking into his grey-blue eyes and glaring at the proud smirk on his lips. He ignores the daily jab at the state of his own hair in favour of bringing attention back to Alex. “You and the old lady have the same eyes, y’know that?”

“You shut up!” Alex warns, grumbling and jabs Leo’s side with his elbow, earning him a loud yelp. Missus Morgan looks up at them. “I rather be dead than have commons with any White.”

“But you do,” he retorts and is instantly hit again, but this time with the handle of the hoe.

“Dogs can’t give birth to no cat,” Alex says and Leo doesn’t correct him because Mister Morgan comes into the yard, hands on his hips and a hard stern look on his face directed straight at Leo and his brother. His hair curls around his face, creating a dark shadow like dirty water that smothers the faint blue of his eyes.

“You niggers best get this done before sundown!” he orders, facial features set stone-hard and they both nod in unison. He doesn’t have to add any lingering threats of no food or no pay. He takes off his rims and turns back into the house. Missus Morgan follows shortly, dark hair flowing behind her and a small crease between her perfect brows.

They work in the field with no words for another hour and two, and Leo nearly falls over because he is so thirsty. But Alex holds him up, his grip tight around Leo’s skinny shoulder and teasingly threatening Leo with the tedious job of hauling water from the well if they don’t get everything done.

And they get it done, putting the baskets of straw wheat into the loaded truck. Mister Morgan doesn’t even come out of the house.

“You two gon’ be ova’ for suppa?” Eddie asks as they and the others walk over to their run-down homes off behind the side of the main Morgan house, rubbing down their sore muscles and watching the sun disappear behind the flat horizon.

“Our momma’s made stew. Been cookin’ since this morn’” Glory, Eddie’s little sister, says, excited and not letting her tired face weigh down her demeanor at all. Her kind round eyes and bright smile never cease to put Leo in a good mood. She works within the Morgan household, clearing dishes and washing them all day long. Even taking care of the little tykes – but that’s mostly Ed and Glory’s Ma’s job. Leo knows Alex feels something for Glory, maybe even loves her. And it puts a hard pain in his heart to think so.

Leo‘s sight catches Alex’s, taking in his brother’s contained expression, knowing he would go in a second if Leo wasn’t the one wishing to eat and sleep in their hut alone. He gives in with a forced grin, saying, “O’ course, Glory. We be there in a moment after we wash.” His brother’s face breaks into a wide smile at Glory.

“That's good then,” she says, smiling wide as she follows into the direction of their home with her brother. They say their good nights to a couple more of their friends before finally making their way to their little home. There used to be their Ma and Pa but they died a little over a year ago, both from a sick with no name.  

Leo uses what little light is left to grapple at the ground for leftover firewood and Alex disappears back into the purple night for water. He thinks _fire_ and a fire ignites between his fingertips, falling onto the wood of the stove. A grin forms on Leo’s face and the heat of the fire hums through his aching body, and for a little bit, he forgets his incredible thirst and rumbling hungry stomach

“You did?” Alex’s voice grabs Leo out of his joy. He sighs and sets the bucket of water in front of his brother. “I tell you, don’t do it no more.”

“No harm done, see?” Leo says but promises anyway not to do it again when his brother gives him another look. The harsh glare breaks between them and dissolves into a laugh. Alex sinks onto the ground and slips snugly beside Leo as their shoulders touch.

“When will ya ever listen?”

“I never listen to you.”

Alex rolls his eyes at his brother’s smug words but smiles fondly, turning round so his back faces him. “Wash me, will ya?” Alex says, quieter and gentler, and hands his brother the rag hanging haphazardly off the edge of an old rotting wood table. “And hurry now. Glory be waitin’”

“You think I the slave to you now?” Leo laughs, slapping lightly the dry rag up against Alex’s head. He dips the cloth into the bucket anyway, sucking the excess for a drink before gliding it up and down gently against his brother’s naked back.

Alex makes the most peculiar noises every time they do this. They’re little hums and short moans. He’d laugh when Leo would slide the rag up along his side and then down the underside of his arm. Sometimes Alex has the audacity to close his eyes, head leant back until Leo has to shove his head back up, the big thing getting in his way.

Sometimes he lets Alex’s head fall until it hits Leo’s own shoulder. And sometimes, Leo would let his cheek press flush against his brother’s own, feeling Alex’s hot little breaths ruffle his hair. There’s always too much heat between them and they end up sweatier than before but the feeling that rises from the centre of his stomach and that spreads like liquid gold through his bones is too good not to want.

This time, however, Leo pushes Alex’s head away and busies himself with cleaning his brother’s sun burnt back, tracing lightly the raised scars on the tight skin. He’s beginning to understand these things are not common, just like the colour of Alex’s eyes or the way the Mister stares at Glory’s thighs when she bends to pick up his children, all big-eyed and mouth open.

So he talks instead, about the unordinary and the extraordinary.

“I had dem dreams agen,” he tells Alex and his brother hums, urging him to go on. He says something, teasing probably, but is lost when Leo rubs a dirt spot at the nape of his neck. “And I swear to Mary we wus White.”

“White?” Alex says and scoffs.

“Yuh, white as milk. You the Whitest, too. All yellowed-hair and speakin’ proper,” Leo continues, whispering now into Alex’s ear. “I think you wus a king.”

“And let me guess,” Alex says, opening his eyes now with a crooked smirk. “You my servant?”

“Quiet now,” Leo warns, smiling over Alex’s laughter. “Stop now!” He slaps the rag back into the bucket, and pushes his brother off him. Then he calms and looks down at his hands, holding them out. Alex spins around to face him, expression solemn and mischievous smile dropping.

“Go on, then. Finish yer dream.”

Leo hesitates, still inspecting his hands, knowing that beneath his skin, in his very blood, he was more than what he is now. And Alex was, too. But believing was another thing entirely too large to fathom.

His dream was a dream that was real. He knows it and feels it. His body remembers it sometimes and it’s why fire rises from his fingertips as if it’s always been there and belongs there. He feels so full of life when it happens, and it is as if the world is vibrating – as if everything is much more than itself.

And it’s why Alex’s eyes are blue like the Missus who Leo thinks is beginning to remember, too. She stares at Glory not the way the Mister does, but with worry and with familiarity, like they were friends once. He believes Alex knows too because Leo sometimes catches Alex looking at him with more than he should, breath erratic and eyes clouded with memory’s residual emotions. Like he is now, gaze intense like he’s trying to read the words the Whites used to force them to learn.

“Alex,” he begins and presses his hot palms against his brother’s cheeks. “I was magic,” he says finally, voice different, lower but with shaking surety. A spark of his very _magic_ strikes between them and he looks to Alex with surprise, who gasps and stands up quick, his own body tensing and looking like a stable cart had hit him. Leo stands too, trying to still his brother but his hands are flung harshly away and for a moment, absolute fear possesses the ever blue of Alex’s eyes.

Alex is remembering now. And so is he.

There is a moment where Leo’s vision completely changes and he’s in a forest. It’s dark and the smell of long-done fiery war mixed with the wet calm of the green fills his nostrils. And Alex, his brother – no, _Arthur_ – is wounded before him, barely breathing on the ground with a weak, dying, hand on his shoulder. And his chest shudders with suppressed sobs as he tries hard to keep his tears in as he realizes he can’t save his friend, his king – his Arthur. So he tells his Everything the biggest secret of his life and his Everything turns away and tells him to _leave him_.

So Leo _goes_ , running out of their home and ignoring his brother’s cry of his First Name and understanding now that the burning desire was more than just deep immoral incestuous love but actual, soul-binding, _Forever_ love that never – and _will_ never – be given back and it’s better that he die now than watch his Arthur die first again and again.

How many life times has this happened? He can’t take anymore. When will they get it right?

He runs too far, meaning to stop before he reached the fences but he can’t see behind his blinding fat tears and the constricting gut-wrenching feel of loss and runs right through the wired fence, his magic making it possible. He hears his First Name again and frantic running footsteps, Glory’s yelp of surprise and the bang and close of a door opening and shutting violently. Then gun shots, an agonized cry – distinctly his Arthur’s –and then a dull, resonating _thud_.

The third time he dies is from whips carving their signatures into his flesh and salt mixing with his red, red blood.

The fourth time he never remembers but they fall in love.

“Excuse me?” he says, tentative but with a wide smile on his face. He’s nineteen and if he could remember, the same age they First met. “I’m sorry to bother but –”

“Sorry, I’ve got no change,” the other interrupts, not even looking at him. The man looks to be an older student, dressed posh in black and he looks at his own baggy Camlann University sweater and rugged jeans.  He adjusts his cross-bag full of textbooks as he contains eye roll that turns into a brighter, more strained smile and another subtle clearing of the throat until the other turns and looks down at him. The man’s eyes widen for a fraction of a second until he blinks the shock away. Was there something on his face?

He ignores the odd stare and says, “I’m not asking for money, _sir_.” The left of his lips quirks up as he catches the quick twitch of the other’s brow. “I just wanted to know the _time_ , if that’s not too much to ask,” and as an afterthought, added, “ _sir?_ ”

The man with blue eyes and blonde hair and lips too pout-ish looks embarrassed and slightly angry but he deserves every bit of shame for the way he acted, all high and mighty as if anyone to speak to him needs more charity than him. “Oh, um,” he starts and looks onto the palm of his hand, flickering blue and green lights setting his angular face aglow. So he’s one of those fancy schmancy fucks that can afford the new revolutionary SKINTs. “It’s 14:57.”

“Thank god,” he breathes a sigh and relaxes his shoulders, “Haven’t missed the last flight. Thanks.”

“Going to Camelot?” the man asks, casting him a sideways glance and probably trying to salvage any dignity he has left. He nods and they both don’t speak a word until the gold and silver ExCF appears in front of them, its doors flashing transparent and allowing passengers inside its white shining interior. There’s an odd tension with the way the man keeps sneaking in little glances at him.

He sits at the front of the craft and the man sits behind him, curses that the weird man hadn’t opted to sit at the back. Two-dozen or so others fill the spots around them. A baby is strapped to the air booster across from him and he’s forced to stand for an elderly woman who needs the extra leg space in the front. Somehow, in the two minutes before the ExCF takes flight, he’s wedged right beside the stuck-up bastard in the end. He groans internally as air pressure drops and they’re up two thousand feet in the air in two seconds, the seat belt sign flashing off but who even wears seat belts nowadays?

Except the prat beside him, obviously, who clicks his safety off and stretches, his elbow knocking into his ear.

“Ouch!” he yelps and rubs the curve of his ear.

“’M sorry,” the man says and offers him a weak smile that slides off his face too soon.

“Better be,” he grumbles and he knows the other’s heard him at the sight of the clenched fingers. He can’t help the smug smile and taps his fingers to the generic melody of the craft music.

He almost misses it but he hears it anyway: “Still an idiot.”

He can’t help the insult from slipping off his tongue. “Prat.”

“Bitch.”

“ _Ass_.”

“ _Dork!”_

_“Snob!”_

_“Stupid!”_

_“_ Is that all you’ve got, you – you – you _clotpole_!”

“Clotpole? Really? Well I –”

“Would you two retards shut the fuck up?” pipes the old lady in front of them. “Mofo kids who don’t give a damn ‘bout consequences.”

The mother with demon-eating eyes hisses, “ _Language!”_ and all three of them are quiet.

It’s five minutes before he notices the other man is staring at him with the same not-so-subtle sideways glance.

“Take a photo,” he says, thinking he’s clever because he once heard the insult in an old vision run at his grandmother’s. “It’ll last longer.”

“What?” the man says, incredulous. “What’s a fo-ter?”

He was dumber than he thought.

“You’re kidding,” he scoffs and when the man’s dumbstruck, crooked mouthed expression doesn’t change, he rolls his eyes and digs through the pocket of his overcoat, pulling out the old camera that belonged to some dead sag named G. WAINE. It ran on electricity and costs a whole day’s worth of Energy to power the thing. “Like pictures, but on _paper_.”

“On _paper?_ ”

“Yes, paper. You know? The stuff they used to cut down trees for?”

It’s a moment and he hopes comprehension falls on the man’s face. Instead, his nose scrunches up and his chin digs into his neck and he asks, “ _Why?”_

He snaps a photo of the man then, the flash blinding everyone momentarily and the baby screams a high pitch scream while the mother hisses again, this time more like the devil than a demon.

“What the _hell_ was that?” the man nearly yells, blinking and rubbing his eyes. “If you blind me, I’m gonna –”

“ _Relax_. It’s just a photo.”

The man glares at him. “Let me see it and delete it.”

“You can’t delete it!” he says and tucks the camera underneath his arm far away from the man with grabby hands and no sense of personal space.

“Why ever not? You take a fo-top of me so I have the right to claim it!”

“It’s _photo_ , you great buffoon! And you can’t delete it! It’s undeletable!” He nearly falls off his seat, leaning sideways and back out of reach. The seat belt sign flashes and his ears pop as they dive downward back to the ground.

He’s out of his seat before the automated voice starts to churn out, _“Thank you for boarding Excalibur Flights. Please mind the gap as you enter the platform”_ and right after he hears, “What do you mean it’s undeletable!? And just what the hell is a _buffoon_?”

He’s stepping onto the escalator before he hears the man who is right on his tail screaming, “ _Mer_ lin!”

Merlin spins around, coming face to face with the crotch of the man who knows his name and who is breathing hard and clutching onto the rail. People around them were staring and the old lady from before was giving them the deepest, hate-filled squint he’s ever seen. “What did you call me?”

It takes a moment for the man to catch his breath, a little too long of a moment but eventually he recovers and stutters. “Nothing!”

“You said my middle name. How’d you know my middle name?”

“You...” he starts. “You told me.”

“No, I didn’t,” Merlin says, his brows meeting together as he stares up at the blue-eyed man. They’ve come to the end of the stairs and Merlin almost forgets to step off. “No one calls me that except my mother.”

“I know your mother.” It sounds like a lie. It _looks_ like a lie because the man is walking quickly now and it is Merlin who’s chasing.

“Yeah, right,” he says as they exit the ExCF tram and into the street. The swift swoosh of crafts rising into the air assaults the noise of people walking quick and the buzzing zoom of cars whizzing by. Merlin almost loses the man but manages to step on the heel of his expensive looking leather shoe by accident, earning him a turn around and a glare. “How do _you_ know her then?”

“Are you _questioning_ me? I’m the kin –” he stops before finishing his sentence and Merlin squints at him in a strange way, wondering if this man was insane or just an extremely huge ass. The man sighs and huffs, looking defeated and raises his hands like he wants to put them on Merlin’s shoulders but he seems to think better of it. His mouth opens and closes a few times until Merlin gives another shake of his head to urge the man to get on with it. Finally, he says, “Look, I met Hunith a long… _long…_ time ago and she told me about you. Recognized you from a few of your – er – fo-turs.”

“Photos.”

“Fo-sos, whatever. I just –”

“My grandmother’s name is Hunith.”

He looks beyond frustrated. “I know your grandmother then!” They’re practically in the middle of rush hour and a few people in a hurry bump into them, grumbling so they both move slightly under the overhang of a building.

“You know she’s seventy-seven and lives in the country in Ealdor, right? Never set foot in the city.” He mumbles next in a quieter voice, “And a royal prat like you probably doesn’t even know what a tree looks like.”

The man growls, “Hey, I heard that!” And Merlin gives him a cheeky grin. “And just how can she be seventy-seven? You can’t be twenty-five already.”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Merlin says, cocking his head to the side.

“Pretend it isn’t,” the man huffs.

“She was Matched[14] later, at thirty-three instead.”

A small ‘o’ forms on the other’s lips and Merlin truly believes this man is the stupidest man he’s ever met. The blonde stops and looks at Merlin suddenly with the same sad look he’s been giving Merlin the whole time when he wasn’t angry. “Are you... are you Matched?”

“No,” he says quickly, not understanding why he was even telling this stranger. “I’m only nineteen. And you’re not a very good liar.”

There’s a smile for some reason. “Look, Merlin –”

“Stop. Don’t call me that,” he says. He doesn’t understand this man who asks whether he is Matched or not and lies about knowing his mother but knows his name too. “Only my mum can call me that.”

“What do they call you then?” The man looks genuinely interested even concerned and his blonde hair looks quite soft, fluttering in the mild wind drifting out from the alley beside them. It’s a thought that Merlin quickly swats away remembering what an ass the man was before.

“What’s _your_ name?” he asks instead, not willing to give away so much when he’s got nothing except an ugly photo of the man.

Again, the man is hesitating. “It’s Pen – I mean, Arthur.”

“Pen-Arthur?” Merlin says slowly, laughing a bit. “Which one is it?”

“Arthur,” he says again, sure this time with a smile. “It’s Arthur.”

“Arthur,” Merlin tries it out and likes it. “I’m Emrys.”

Arthur nods and his smile turns into a laugh. It’s a hearty one, that shakes his whole body and Merlin can see a shimmering twinkle in those blue eyes infects Merlin into a laugh as well.

“You’re still Merlin to me,” Arthur says with a grin and ruffles Merlin’s dark hair.

They become fast friends – inseparable and joined to the hip – and Arthur never manages to tell the truth even though he is the most horrible liar. When they’re together it’s like they’re Matched and everybody else thinks they are, too. Even Merlin’s grandmother cries at the very sight of them, convinced it’s the best Match the Centre Government could ever Law.

But the Law doesn't work that way so they keep it hidden and secret. Arthur calls it magic that they aren't found out the many times Merlin forgets and grabs hold of Arthur's hand on their way to class.

Sometimes Merlin feels like he’s known Arthur a thousand years. And it’s almost as if Arthur knows him already. He knows his favourite food, his favourite colour and he knows just what to say to get him pissed off. Arthur buys Merlin all the cameras from every dark corner store he can find and Merlin takes an ugly ‘fo-ther’ of Arthur every chance he gets. When they’re both naked and vulnerable beneath each other, breaths hot and skin sensitive to every inch of the other, it’s the first time but it feels as if it’s the thousandth in the longest. Arthur looks into his eyes in those moments; a pain he thinks is as old as time spilling from those depths of ocean blue and tells him, “I don’t want you to change. I want you to always be you.”

He laughs then, tells Arthur with a firm kiss on the lips, breathing in the rich scent of earth and water of his skin, “I’ve never changed and I’m not about to. Not even until the day I die.”

It’s like he’s been missing Arthur longer than the nineteen years he was without him. And Arthur kisses him, hungry and lovingly, mumbling in his ear of times of forests and knights and magic. They’re incredible stories and Merlin finishes them for Arthur when he falls asleep on his chest, blonde hair silky soft on the bottom of his chin.

For five years, it feels like it could be a forever thing.

But they’re never Matched together. Arthur is Matched later than the usual decreed age at twenty-eight with a woman named Queen and then he dies when two ExCF crafts collide, a piece of gold metal striking his heart. They both fly for half a second and Merlin curses the gods for granting him a too-long life when everyone around him dies.

“Stay with me,” Merlin begs – cries as his chest nearly caves in – the world shaking and broken around them. Smoke billows and smothers them and the shadows of bodies are bottomless black, strewn lifeless amongst sharp jagged metal and fire. Sirens sound in the distance and for some unfathomable reason, Merlin is unscathed, flawless and whole while Arthur is broken and gasping for breath.

There’s a cry sticking to the sides of his throat, impossible to swallow as Arthur finds his hand and says with a voice too steady for death, “Just - just hold me… please.” His eyes are fixated on Merlin’s, strong and so, so, so _blue_.

Arthur is beautiful in that last moment.

And Merlin is never seen again, slipping into the darkness after they spread Arthur’s ashes into the west ocean.

The fifth time is a flutter, like a whisper. It’s only for a moment and then – they’re gone.

The sixth is long. It’s not until he is eighty-one and his great grandson is in his arms and opens his little wide deep blue eyes that he’s figured out who he’s been waiting for all these years. He tells his grandson to name him his First Name but they are already calling him Bradley and he frowns.

He dies three years later and wakes up for the seventh time with the name, Colin.

**Author's Note:**

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> **Footnotes:**  
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> [top] [1] _Angakkuq_ is Inuit for shaman. Their role in society consists using spiritual guidance tohelp the sick, guided spirits, and worked as a type of law enforcer. They were trained as children and acquired a special language.
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> [top] [2] _Tuurngaq_ is Inuit for spirit and often Angakkuq would turn to a tuurgaq for guidance.
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> [top] [3] _Geisha_ are "traditional Japanese female entertainers who act as hostesses and whose skills include performing various Japanese arts such as classical music, dance and games" (from wiki). Often popular culture misinterprets the geisha culture as a form of high-class prostitution.
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> [top] [4] _Taiyaki with anko_ is a [sweet fish-shaped pastry filled with red bean paste.](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Taiyaki)
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> [top] [5] _Onamae_ is the formal word for "name". In Japanese, you introduce your name as "Watashi no (my) onamae (name) wa (is) [your name here] desu." The soldier/Arthur mishears Merlin/Midori's name as _onamae_. (What a dummy!)
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> [top] [6] _Sayonara_ is typically said formally and usually, if you're going to see the person soon again, you wouldn't necessarily use _sayonara_ but _ja ne_ which is more informal and not as dramatic as a such a firm _sayonara_.
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> [top] [7] _Jiichan_ is the informal and affectionate version of grandfather or _Ojiisan_. It's the English equivalent to Grandpa instead of the formal Grand _father_.
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> [top] [8] _Okiya_ means boarding house or geisha house. It's like a business front where geisha would live and eventually, geisha would inherit the _okiya_ from the _okaasan_ or Mother of the house. The _okiya_ pays for the geisha's training and other expenses throughout her career.
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> [top] [9] _Kanpo_ is the practice of herbal medicine.
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> [top] [10] _Shiatsu_ is the practice of acupuncture and believing pressure points are the cure to certain illnesses of the body. For story purposes, _shiatsu_ is like Merlin's magic.
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> [top] [11] _Ton-jiru_ is pork soup
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> [top] [12] _Danna_ is a geisha's financial support whom is usually a wealthy man that enjoys the entertainment of a particular geisha. In this story, Miko's _danna_ is the same man who paid for Miko's virginity, or the transition out of being an apprentice geisha, which is the geisha tradition called _mizukage_.
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> [top] [13] _Are you all right_ can sound like "I am all right" or "Are you all right?" or "All right" depending on how your say it or what you add to the end of the sentence in Japanese. In this case, the soldier/Arthur fails to phrase it as a sentence.
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> [top] [14] _Matched_ : In this universe, once you reach the age of 25, you are usually coupled off with someone chosen by the government to control reproduction and genome capability - and the match is not disputable. Sometimes you don't get matched right away for whatever reason (the government hasn't found the right person yet, or the person themselves can't be married off right away due to job or illness).


End file.
